


I'll keep you safe, wrapped tight around me

by AellaWrights



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Michael just wants Calum safe, Pre-Relationship, although it isn't between Michael and Calum, brief mentions to violence, domestic abuse, it's also not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 01:48:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6354043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AellaWrights/pseuds/AellaWrights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In this story Calum is in an abusive relationship, although not with Michael. It’s not explicit but there is mentions of domestic abuse so please don’t read it if that triggers you or makes you uncomfortable. The pairing is Malum but it’s more like pre- relationship</p>
<p> Also this took so long to right but it's not even that long?<br/></p>
    </blockquote>





	I'll keep you safe, wrapped tight around me

**Author's Note:**

> In this story Calum is in an abusive relationship, although not with Michael. It’s not explicit but there is mentions of domestic abuse so please don’t read it if that triggers you or makes you uncomfortable. The pairing is Malum but it’s more like pre- relationship
> 
> Also this took so long to right but it's not even that long?  
> 

   You cry when you see him. He’s a vision, a prince in a green day shirt instead of armor when he comes to pick you up. It doesn’t matter though because he still looks like a knight when he’s punching your ex Harry in the face. It should be harder you think as Michael pulls you in closer, oxygen mingling, his bloody knuckles brushing your neck as he hugs you.

  
   “Calum you’re safe now.”

  
   He doesn’t raise his voice at you or greet you with bruises. Just opens the car door for you and helps you inside. His hands are warm soaking through your tee, as they just barely brush past you, enough to buckle the seatbelt. Outside your ex asshole is groaning and cupping his balls, Michael hums a little as he gets behind the wheel and you feel guilty although nothing is your fault.  
The worse thing is you know you aren’t to blame. However it doesn’t stop the bile from threatening to come up though when your best friend says it. You’d known the minute Harry struck you that first time that this was unhealthy.

  
   You remember because the bruises on your torso lasted longer than the internet history on your computer reading domestic abuse: definition.

  
    Besides you Mikey shoots you glances like a laser beam set to kill. It’s nothing like Harry looked at you but you want to draw into yourself regardless. He doesn’t say your name, but sings Blink 182 instead. It’s the first album you’d ever heard together. Two star eyed kids sitting with your backs to his bed, thighs touching and fingers drumming trying to memorize the song’s chords. Mike’s hair might have changed since then but his promise to keep you safe hasn’t.

  
    After the first time Harry does it you told yourself it’d never happen again. That your boyfriend’s anger had overflowed and his fist said the words he couldn’t. You told yourself you deserved it and felt dirty afterwards when you kissed his cheek and slid under the covers to lay next to the devil. That night a shooting star shot across the sky but you missed it because your face was buried in his neck.

  
   Michael didn’t come over a lot back then. Some days lying to him felt worse than doing it to your mom, most of the time though you couldn’t stand the look in his eyes when he saw the hickeys littering your neck. You wanted to show him the other bruises the ones not formed by a mouth but you turned away instead to softly kiss your bitter man and then lead Michael outside to hang somewhere else.  
That night you tell yourself it was worth it, and dig your fingertips into the cut on your side. Created by a well-aimed beer bottle. You think about your best friend’s new blue dyed hair and how nice it looks.

  
    Harry goes away for the week a paid job conference or something and the whole house is yours for the taking. You don’t wear socks and drink from the tap, gulping down the water without a cup. Being free shouldn’t be something new to you but if feels like the best birthday present your boyfriend could have gave you (even if he forgot). You invite Michael and Luke over, and that older guy Ashton from work too. The pizza feels like lead in your belly at the end of the night, and Anchorman plays softly in the background. Mike’s fingers feel like flames interlocked with yours. You only let the thought enter your head for a few seconds because it’s your birthday and its okay to want impossible things if its only tonight.

  
You tell yourself that twice: Once before bed and again when Michael leans over and whispers. “Happy 18th. Birthday Boy.”

  
***

  
   Harry’s side of the bed is cold and smells like women’s perfume now. Time progresses and so do you. Your hair is longer and the blonde streak that used to be in your fringe is completely gone. There’s a pair of shoes you don’t recognize at the end of your bed and two letters on top of your dresser that read Calum Thomas Hood we’re happy to inform….

  
Footie scholarships.

  
   You decide not to tell Harry yet but call your mom. Her voice is like rock candy when she finally picks up, firm but sweet. It’s been two months since you’ve seen her or Mali Koa. You press hard against your split lip and say yes when she asks you over for dinner.

  
    It’s seven when you arrive there. Harry’s arm is wrapped protectively around your waist like the ones who are hurting you are behind this door and not beside you. It’s absurd because you grew up here in the room upstairs. It’s where you had your first sleepover and learned to play guitar. When your dad answers the door it’s like playing a chord for the first time, he pulls you to his chest tightly and asks how you’ve been doing.

  
   “I’ve been doing just fine, dad.” You reply but it comes out like a cry.

   
   Next to you, Harry’s acting face slips into place. He shakes your father’s hand and talks about the football season. When his oversized hand meets the small of your back to guide you inside he looks every bit the part of a devoted boyfriend. But you don’t miss the way his nails dig into your flesh when he lets go.

  
   Dinner is nice. You eat small bites of green beans between smiling at your mom and answering Mali’s questions. You talk about your part time job and blush when Harry brags about how lucky he is to have you. Everything is charming and enchanting like Walt Disney wrote your life himself. It isn’t hard to pretend the limp in your leg doesn’t exist when you’re surrounded by family and a boyfriend who’s hand won’t leave your thigh.

  
The scholarship doesn’t get brought up, and you hide the letters in your top dresser drawer.

  
***

It all goes to shit in the span of a week.

  
     It’s a coincidence how Michael finds out about both the letters and the beatings. Harry’s at some friends house and it’s just you two making dinner in the kitchen. You spill tomato paste all over his shirt, it’s an accident but he still hisses because it’s cold.

  
    You flinch, it’s inevitable, but the look on Michael’s face hurts more than the phantom strike. He recoils, his facial expression one so close to nausea and you want to cry because this is not how you planned him finding out. (You’d hoped in thirty years, when Harry was a distant memory and Michael was your present and future, you’d be brave enough to tell him).

  
   “Calum,” he whispers. Leaning forward to grab the wrists now covering your face, you shake your head because although he’s nothing but gentle you can’t think with him this close to you.

  
   “I’ll finish dinner; you can borrow a shirt from my room, okay?” Your voice comes out shaky and it isn’t hard to notice your hands trembling when they drain the pasta.

  
   Michael doesn’t see it though and you sigh in relief. You think it’s possible to salvage the night when the blue haired boy enters the kitchen again wearing your black anxiety shirt. You smile because it’s clearly too big on him but he looks cute anyway.

  
   “Calum,” He breathes excited and for a second your confused but then you see the paper in his hand. “When were you going to say you got offered football scholarships?”

  
    Defeated you whisper, “Surprise.” And hug back when he jumps on you.

  
   “I’m so proud of you, Cal. Nobody deserves it more than you do.” Michael praises.

  
    Feeling good doesn’t last long for you, but this moment feels like forever. You should let go because you have a boyfriend, and a mile long list of problems but it’s been so long since anyone appreciated you, that you’ve forgot what it feels like to be admired. One more second of this, you think, will last me long enough to get out of here.

  
                         (Spoiler it doesn’t).

  
   “Cal?”

  
    You hum in response.

  
    “What is that?” his voice is funny, higher than usual and your eyes follow to where he’s pointing.

  
A violet bruise almost the size of a fist, or actually fist sized peeks out from under your shirt sleeve. It looks bad still fresh from two days ago when you commented about how late Harry had been coming home these past couple of months. Your cheeks heat up, and your brown eyes fill with tears.

  
   “It’s nothing Mike I fell down the stairs.” You lie.

  
   “Calum don’t fucking lie. Is he hitting you?” Michael shouts.

  
   You take a step back, surprised at your best friend’s outburst and it’s all the confirmation he needs.

  
   Under Michael’s gaze you feel dirty. Like a stain on a carpet, that gets pushed further and further into the fabric with every scrub. It’s humiliating how often you feel powerless in your own home.

  
  “  How long?” Michael asks. His voice is low and shaky filled with the guilt of not noticing the most important person in his life struggling.

  
   You hug yourself and reply with,” before my birthday.”

 

  "Christ, Cal that was like seven months ago!” Michael’s stopped shouting but there’s so much anger laced in his voice it has the same effect.

  
  “I’m sorry,” you whimper.

  
   He deflates in an instant, like a pastry that had the wrong amount of yeast added to it. Michael’s heart hurts because what the fuck had he been doing, what had been so important that he hadn’t noticed what was happening to Calum. Calum, who smiled brighter than the sun when he saw a dog. Who had stood up for Michael when he was bullied at school, and had the knuckles to prove it. Calum who was still capable of loving a monster through everything he did to him. Who stood before him apologizing like it was his fault his boyfriend saw him as a punching bag instead of an artist’s canvas.

  
“God Cal,” he whispered. “None of this was your fault. You’re absolutely perfect, Harry he’s sick or something and he’s never coming near you again. I’m so sorry I didn’t notice before but I’m going to take care of you now.”

  
   There’s tear tracks down Calum’s face and Michael wipes them away with the pad of his thumb. He lightly traces over Calum’s split lip as well but it doesn’t vanish as easily.

  
   Harry comes home before the police get there. He busts in like a thunder storm, rattling the door on its hinges, the sound enough makes Calum’s spine break out in goosebumps and he hasn’t even seen the boy’s face yet.

  
     From his position behind Michael he can’t see much, but he doesn’t need to see anything to know Harry is pissed.

  
    “What’s going on here,” your boyfriend sneers. Most likely observing you cower behind the blue haired boy. “Are you cheating on me? Spreading your legs for your precious Mikey, you little bitch?”

  
   You place your hand over Michael’s closed fist to calm him down; because this is something you have to do.

   
   “I’m leaving Harry, I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you.” It’s the first thing in a long time you don’t regret saying to him. Being in control feels good you think.

  
   “You’re not going to leave,” he scoffs. “Nobody wants you! You think your parents want their loser son with no future living under their roof? You think Michael over here who you’ve been in love with since you were a kid wants you for anything other than that tight ass of yours, huh? I’m the only one willing to put up with you!”

  
    “Is that what you call pushing me down a flight of stairs? Putting up with me!” you scream at him. He’s lying nothing coming from his mouth is true. Not about your parents or Michael.

  
The letters and the way Michael’s hands felt between yours on your birthday contradict everything that’s fallen from his mouth, but it still stings.

  
Michael shoves forward in a blur, he’s screaming something but you can’t hear it. Everything is muddled together like tire tracks after it’s rained. You’d read somewhere about confrontations. How sometimes in the heat of the moment, the eye of the storm, time slows down to a halting almost stop. You don’t think that’s right though because when Mikey’s fist collides with Harry’s cheek the sound of bones breaking and his body hitting the floor is fast enough to beat any NASCAR record.

  
     The police get there right about the time you scream. Michael looks stark and dangerous highlighted in blue and red watching the man you used to love squirm in pain on the ground. His nose is bleeding and probably broken. You don’t feel any happiness from it like you think you should. Instead you cling to Mike’s side while the officers ask you a million questions, and offer to take you to the hospital. The only real damage between you two is Michael’s bloody knuckles and the combined guilt that settles in both your chests, so you say no while the boy you grew up with calls your parents.

  
   While he buckles your seatbelt, you stare out the window and observe all the damage. It feels like losing a lot even though the only things you had were a cheating, hurtful devil and a house you couldn’t really call yours.

  
When Michael’s hand finds yours rested upon the stick shift it feels like gaining a lot even though everything you’re returning to has been yours forever. It’s easier to believe it though when the man you’ve always loved is by your side and there’s a family waiting for you to come home.

 

* * *

 

Come talk to me on Tumblr about Malum or Lashton because I want friends: [likeasos](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/likeasos)

 

Also thanks for reading my story :)))


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